


The road less travelled

by Mother_of_Dragons



Category: American Gods (TV)
Genre: F/M, Italics, Melodrama, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Roadtrip, Run-On Sentences, Spoilers, bio may change, italics... probably a lot of them, probably a little canon divergence, reader is not an oc but she has a backstory? kinda, somewhat graphic depictions of death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:09:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22322347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mother_of_Dragons/pseuds/Mother_of_Dragons
Summary: Maybe it's the new magic, or the roiling adrenaline that undercuts it but, he almost… misses it once the taste of you fades. Perhaps would even reach forward for another, were it not for his restraints. It's been too long, after all.
Relationships: Mad Sweeney (American Gods)/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

Sweeney takes a deep drag of his cigarette as he ambles through the field, inhaling more singed paper than tobacco on account of the way his hands had shaken when he'd rolled it, equal parts nervous from his lack of lucky coin and itching for a fight. 

He picks a spot as far out of sight of the car as he dares to relieve himself - beneath a verdant Oak - and tugs, carefully, at his jammed zipper. It had taken some convincing (in the form of some, quite frankly, _pathetic_ whinging) to get the troupe to stop, but he was glad to be free of the confines of that hell-on-wheels, if only for a short while. 

If he was being entirely honest with himself - which he tended to avoid as much as the next person - he wasn't actually as desperate as he'd led them to believe, not really. In reality, he'd just needed some time to himself, away from the smell of necrosis, to think. 

"I would reconsider that, if I were you"

Half expecting a gun to the face, Sweeney lets go of his zipper in favour of turning - slowly - in the direction of the voice, impressed (and slightly irritated) to be taken unawares. 

"The smoking or the pissing?" He responds after a moment, voice muffled slightly by the cigarette as he scans the field, wary eyes flitting from tree to tree in an attempt to identify the source. 

"The latter" 

This time, the voice echoes from behind him and, as he turns to meet it, he's sure he sees a figure sat on a branch of the nearest tree, but he loses sight of it when a flock of birds - startled by a distant sound - take flight, and they're gone when the crows clear. Absently, it registers that the noise had been the blare of the car horn and, sure enough, when he squints in the direction of the cab, Laura is flipping him off through the window and yelling something that he can't make out. 

"And if I don't?" he asks, quickly growing tired of this farce - he wouldn't put it past that bitch to drive off without him on a whim. 

Met with no reply, his own words echo back to him, distorted and mocking as the grove begins to darken - too quickly to be natural. 

Sweeney feels something touch his leg, snaking around the thick muscle of his calf as the space begins to close in on him, some branches of the nearby trees entwining into a crowded canopy of leaves above his head, others pawing at him and cutting at his skin. 

There's blood in his left eye, pouring freely from a shallow, but heavily bleeding, cut on his temple and inhibiting his vision as the coil which he soon identifies as rope wraps around his free leg and brings him to the ground, dragging him without a moment's hesitation to the centre of the clearing. He wipes the infernal mix of blood and dirt from his face with one hand, the other struggling against the sturdy rope as he attempts to retrieve his switchblade from an inner pocket of his shirt. 

His sense of urgency increases tenfold when he notices a _body_ hanging from the Oak above the clearing, swinging almost leisurely in the gentle wind.

It’s clear that this figure is different from the last, and the dread that runs through him - leaving goosebumps across his arms - when it turns to face him, arm outstretched ~~invitingly~~ _hauntingly_ , alerts him that it's looking for more than just company, and would be willing to take him - his _life_ \- by force if necessary. 

He doesn't dare let the relief show on his face when his hand clasps around the casing of the switchblade, flipping it open with practised skill and wrenching the blade through the coarse twine constricting his movements. 

It unfurls, limp, at his feet and he scrambles back through the undergrowth before anything else can grab him, hands desperately groping for purchase or something that he could use in his favour--

He feels something sharp skim his palm (just shy of the sweeping arc he'd made across the mossy earth) and reaches for it instinctively, fist clasping around a craggy stone not dissimilar to a small boulder in its heft. 

He lifts it with no difficulty, intending to aim the projectile at the ~~head~~ skull of the hanging skeleton, sure that it must be the source of at least some of the grove's power, when the stack that he'd retrieved it from collapses, stones scattering across the clearing. 

All at once, the magic breaks at the sound of a piercing cry and the warped branches part to let the sunlight through, swaying gently in the breeze as if they hadn’t had him in their clasp just moments before. The harrowing cry sends a chill through his bones, literally rooting him to the spot as the ground beneath him ruptures and the roots of the surrounding trees burst out of the cracks, wrapping around him until he’s practically immobile.

Despite this, Sweeney almost lets out a sigh of relief.

No time seems to have passed in the outside world and the taxi's still waiting for him just beyond the field, but he'll have to _get_ there first, if he wants to live. 

The figure from before descends the Oak, their back to him as they frantically collect the strewn stones and reconstruct the small cairn he had knocked over, whispering quietly to themselves all the while.

"If its a wish you need, I have 3 going spare" 

The familiar proposition, 3 wishes in exchange for his release, is one which leaves the bitter taste of defeat in his mouth, but he pushes it aside, wary of the trio of crows that had landed nearby, and the omen they imbue as they watch him, his fate reflected in their beaded eyes. 

Today would _not_ be the day he died. 

"Spare me your lies and your parlour tricks, leprechaun" Their voice is shaky, but determined as they rise, taking a moment to recollect their composure.

"You work for Wednesday" 

It's more of a statement than a question and Sweeney blanches at the thought that he could be in more trouble than he realised, if the old crook is involved. 

"Not exactly. But, if its Woden your after, I can do you one better--" 

They turn at this and Sweeney tapers off when he spots the knife - _his_ knife - in their hands.

*

It feels _good_ to be feared again, after all this time.

You hadn’t planned any of this, hadn’t intended to trap him.

In fact, you would have let him go, _really_ , you would (with just a little scare to get him to go piss somewhere else) if he had been just a man, insignificant like the rest. 

But, he isn’t just a man, and you aren’t one to turn away a gift of such... _potential_.

“Today’s your lucky day” you say, choosing to ignore his bitter scoff at the irony of your choice of words as you approach him.

“I’ll let you go, if - and only if - you take me to Wednesday”

He makes as if to speak, opening his mouth and then shutting it promptly again as he considers your proposal, visibly nervous. After a moment, with his head hung low, Sweeney nods in agreement and you smile as you take a seat - obedience looks good on him.

“So, we have a compact?”

He vocalises his answer this time, tone gruff with the shame of being bested and - with a flick of your wrist - he's lurched into a sitting position opposite you, held steady by the roots under your control as you swipe a line across his open palm with his blade. 

Sweeney grimaces, but manages to hold his tongue as you push upon the cut until it bleeds. He watches you closely as you do the same across your own palm, and - much to his chagrin - discard his knife once you're through, using your index to smear your blood across his lips, and his across yours. When this is through, you tear off a strip of cloth from your tattered clothes and knot it around both your bleeding hands, pulling it taut enough to make him wince. The effect is almost immediate, he feels the very essence of your magic thrumming through him, seeping through his palm and into his veins; slow, and undeniably subdued but _there_. 

Something within him recognises the rhythm of the arcane tongue you're uttering, no doubt the source of the faint glowing of the twin cuts on your palms he spies through the fabric, growing brighter by the second.

The mantra ends and, seamlessly, you begin it again, voice just above a whisper but nonetheless choked with passion - as if beseeching a higher power. Though it pains him, he bites back his scorn.

Sweeney knows this ritual well, somewhere in the depths of his scattered memories. Knows it well enough that he'd bet his lucky coin on what you're praying _begging_ for, would that he could--

The kiss that follows takes him by surprise, abrupt as it is. There’s nothing romantic about it, with the clashing of teeth and the iron tang that accompanies it, a taste not unfamiliar upon his tongue. 

Maybe it's the new magic, or the roiling adrenaline that undercuts it but, he almost… misses it once the taste of you fades. Perhaps would even reach forward for another, were it not for his restraints. It's been too long, after all.

"We're bound, leprechaun, and shall remain so until the compact is fulfilled" 

This breaks him out of his stupor and he sees you clearly for the first time as you lean back on your haunches, a warning set into your stern expression of what would come to pass should either party break the promise - an evil best left unspoken of. 

Yes, he would deliver you to Wednesday… but, at what cost?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 new works in the same day - Am I on fire or have I just proofread each doc so many times that I think they're good? I'll leave that up to you to decide :)
> 
> I'll be honest with y'all, I started writing this like the week before s2 came out, hoping that I'd been finished before it did &; it's been ~9 months since then, so Sweeney ***** kinda messed up the non-existent plot. I have the next 2 chapters written & potentially 2 more very vaguely 'plotted', just have to actually work in the romance somehow. At this moment, idk if I'm going to stick very closely to TV cannon, or just use it more as a guide. I don't have the time to rewatch both seasons, so atm I'm just going off what clips I can find on YT & wiki summaries. 
> 
> If anyone reads this, please feel free to leave comments about whether I should post the next 2 chapters and what you feel that I could incorporate them so that I can grow as a 'writer' - tags will be updated with each chapter! :)
> 
> (Also, to clarify, I don't think Laura is a bitch - I mean yeah, she is, but that was more of a 'Sweeney's perspective')


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short & sweet :)

“Are you a leprechaun, too?"

It had been an hour or more since Sweeney had returned and squeezed himself into the backseat, pressed up against the door as far away from you as he could manage, clearly not in the mood to talk. Nonetheless, Laura had tried anyway, bugging him with question after question until he’d begrudged her a single word (“debt”) and pulled his cap low over his face, slumping in his seat and promptly falling asleep. The taxi had descended into silence after this (with the exception of the low croon of the radio and the occasional mutter from Sweeney when they went over potholes) and you’d remained stoic throughout, eyes fixed upon the road with that far away, contemplative look on your face.

Salim had supposed it would be best for him to try and break the ice, before Laura got the chance to offend you, hence the question. He realises now, as he risks a glance at you in the rearview mirror and your eyes lock, that perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut after all.

The look on your face is hard to decipher - guarded, but neither cheerful or aggrieved. At least that was a start.

"I am the whispered Sermon from the lowly pastor, the nightmare that ails the rich and comforts the destitute. I am Resolve in the face of hardship, defiance on the tongues of the oppressed. I am-- _hungry_ ”

The monologue surprises him (its abrupt cut off even more so) but, with a weak shrug and a complacent mumble of “I could eat”, he slows the taxi to a near crawl as Jack’s Crocodile Bar comes fully into view, taking Sweeney’s opportune sleepy indecipherable grunt as a vote in favour of stopping. 

…

"Spare me the dramatics. Are you a ‘God’?" Laura asks, tone one of disbelief as she watches you devour plate after plate of food. 

Her insides churn at the sight and she turns to look back at the bar from the booth, taking small sips of (but not really feeling, and certainly not _tasting_ ) the shitty beer she had ordered, partly for the sake of keeping up appearances and partly for the feeling of familiarity borne from it, as if she had been prone to this in the depths of her deteriorating past life. 

She's visibly startled when you erupt into laughter at the suggestion of divinity, a full belly laugh which shakes the other patrons out of their comatose stupor. Sweeney is _somewhere_ nursing his wounds or fighting or fucking (perhaps even all of the above) and Salim's outside praying, but, she thinks (wrongly) that, if you were to lunge at her from across the table in your fit of apparent lunacy, she could take you. 

Your laughter tapers off after a while, and you take another bite from your stockpiled plate, mulling over how to respond as you chew. 

"I am the Other" you finally respond, decidedly unhelpfully. 

Laura regards you for a moment, frowning slightly, before she speaks. 

"What, like a ghost story?" 

You raise an eyebrow (as if to ask, ' _do I look like a ghost to you?_ ') and smile wanly at her inference, gently amused by the idea. 

Unnerved, she turns back towards the bar, wishing for the first time that Sweeney would hurry up and return from, well, _whatever_ he was up to. 

In theory, there was nothing wrong with the smile, in fact, by all accounts it was a perfectly normal one, but there was an aura of… something which hung around it. Some form of malevolence which existed just below its facade of presumptuous mocking (as if the smile itself knew something that she didn't) and registered deep within her subconscious, like noticing - but not registering - that an object cast no shadow.

If smiles could cast a shadow, yours would have none.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm intermittently reading American Gods atm and Neil Gaiman's writing style?  
> *chef's kiss*
> 
> Still don't know exactly where I'm going with this, but that's never stopped me  
> before, so I'll post the next 'chapter' when I have chapter 4 and/or 5 reasonably  
> underway :)


	3. "Every hour wounds, the last one kills"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _ Somewhere in America _

Mrs. Aduba is woman enough to admit that she’s scared;

  * scared of the storm that she can feel brewing nebulously across the dome of her bad left knee. 
  * scared of the dark.
  * scared of being forgotten.



But most of all, she's scared of the Silence.

According to the crimson, unblinking glare of the LED clock by her bed, it's 20 to 4 in the morning and, completely, utterly - deathly - silent. Not even the windchimes that no-good son of hers had made her all those years ago, an amalgam of elbow macaroni pieces and faux glass beads, are tinkering, despite the abundance of wind.

The breeze is brisk enough to make her shiver as it streams in through the open window, whipping the loose papers on the windowsill into a mini frenzy as, carried in by the draught, the Silence tumbles in through the gap beneath the door.

It fills the room, hazy and oppressive - like smoke - and Mrs. Aduba shivers when she feels it slide over the patchwork quilt, melding to fit the contours of her body beneath the sheets and reminding her of the tin of molasses she’d knocked over once as a child, just to watch it crawl, sticky and glistening over the table.

The clock ticks 3:21, and a phantom ache spiderwebs down the varicose veins that span her left leg (beneath her bad knee) just as a fork of lightning splits open the bleak, uniform gray of the sky, illuminating for the briefest of seconds the inside of her room, the TV which had shut off a few hours ago, the lone chair by the window (worn threadbare with age) and the cabinet midway through both.

One blink, and everything’s thrust into darkness once more.

She’s still afraid, maybe more so than before - but, now she can hear the harried din of the windchimes as they're tossed to and fro by the howling wind, can hear the thunder that follows, bellowing through the sky loud enough to make her wince.

It’s an effort to get up, but she does so without complaint, ambling across to the window with nothing but the light of the moon to guide her until she’s standing in front of the cheap, plywood cabinet.

Inside is a tray, plastic with a garishly coloured print of a ranch slap-bang in the middle and, on it sits an array of trinkets; a framed picture of her in her heyday, a calabash bowl filled with charcoal salt and three candles of varying height, each perched atop a coin stolen from a dead man’s pocket - as per the custom. 

The picture is faded most around the edges, with a smattering of cloudy, picked clean film in the middle, creased from where it had been folded.

"Yellow" 

Mrs. Aduba croaks, without being conscious of it. 

The picture is in black and white, but a sliver of a memory shoots up through the depths of her mind, glimmering and sharp - she concentrates, clasps it with both hands before it has the chance to wriggle free, actually mimics the movement, thumbs curling over eachother. 

The dress _had_ been a striking (read: ugly) canary yellow, with white buttons to boot, as pale and smooth as bone.

She'd worn it well, before the wrinkles and stooped back and glaucoma. 

Behind the picture rests a small idol. 

The idol, which had been painstakingly whittled by her late grandmother, depicts a woman with an infant strapped to her back, a machete raised high in defiance above her head - or, at least, it’s supposed to. _Nne nne_ , who’d been half blind by the time, had done a... shoddy job of it, but it would work all the same. 

She lights the candles in height order, thumb running over the symbols etched into their wax and waits, watching carefully until the flames stand steady before she reaches back into the cabinet, wizened fingers brushing over a bulb of kola nut and a clipped shaft of sugarcane.

It’s all that she has, but it will suffice.

The words spill clumsily from her lips as she chalks out a near-perfect circle, the burr in her voice growing as the flames rise, lilting with remnants of the bayou; sluggish with emotion and, beneath the surface, potentially deadly.

She hopes that the half forgotten words won't matter so much as the intentions behind them - those she has aplenty. 

_"Chain breaker"_

The flames extinguish suddenly, and the storm lets up, heavy rain slowing first to a drizzle, then drying up altogether as the clock ticks to 20 past, but she doesn't have to look to know the time.

Silence falls once again, and she stumbles to her threadbare chair with renewed vigour, all intents and purposes set on watching the sun struggle through the blanket of sleet-grey clouds. 

But the fight goes out of her before she gets there & Mrs. Aduba expels her last breath, cold, alone & a yet a little less afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm more than halfway through American Gods now, I'm at the point where Shadow's holding the vigil.  
> Surprisingly, Sweeney plays a much smaller part in the book than he does in the show, but then again  
> I'm still a ways to go.
> 
> I tried to (kinda) write this is Gaiman's style, don't know if it worked, but I like it :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (takes place before the previous chapter)

"Aren't leprechauns supposed to be lucky?"

It's your third round of Blackjack and Sweeney's third loss in as many rounds, cards either falling abysmally short or overshooting the mark in an almost spectacular fashion. 

He reacts to your query about as well as you'd expected, with a near dispassionate "fuck you" - the very definition of 'all bark but no bite' - as he fumbles for his pack of cigarettes, wearily regarding the deck all the while.

It takes 3 tries before the flame of his novelty lighter steadies enough for the paper to catch and even then it gutters out right afterwards, but he pays it no mind, disregarding the flimsy plastic amongst the similarly defective personal affects cluttering his side of the table as he inhales, the soft chatter of the program Salim's watching filling the silence between you. 

"Best of six?" 

He has the good sense to sound, beneath that lilting accent, almost... _bashful_ about it as he asks, clearly looking for something to occupy his restless mind - you can't say that you blame him. 

Frankly, you're growing tired of this game; there's nothing to be won from it, no wager to add delectable risk, but you allow him these last rounds, shrugging impartially as he reaches once again for the deck and begins his signature shuffle.

He lets out a puff of smoke with each deft cut of the deck, and - fleetingly - it strikes you that his eyes resemble wells of honey, only more hazel than golden; like the dappled sunlight which would stream through the verdant canopy of leaves in luminous sheaths back at the grove. 

Eyes which have seen wonders beyond your comprehension, and have been made weary by their travels.

Eyes which would no doubt mirror your own when all of this is through. 

Dealing each card somewhat hazardously, he surveys each of his own with careful consideration, his poker face commendable in its own regard despite his, at times, mercurial temper. 

This time, you're on track to win within just 3 moves and Sweeney's all but given up on any chance of a draw, frustration almost tangible as he slouches lower in the plastic patio chair he'd dragged in from outside.

You can't help but note that it matches the motel aesthetic perfectly as you reach for your newest card; yellowed and visibly outdated. 

And just like that, your luck turns; 28 - _bust_. 

"Well, would ya look at that" 

He lets you shuffle this time, doesn't even notice when you slip the ace back into the deck as he sits up straight, almost immediately full of himself and grinning like the cat that got the cream. 

The fourth round comes and goes without incident, and you bite back a smile when you lose, feigning annoyance as you reach for his lighter.

He doesn't offer you a cigarette & you don't ask, running your thumb over the cool metal just for the sake of something to do with your hands. Sweeney watches, drawn to the rough drag of the flint wheel against the pad of your thumb and the whoosh of the flame as it ignites. 

_(Whoosh)_

His eyes glint conspiratorially in the light of the steady flame.

 _(Whoosh)_

He reaches for his beer, takes a swig without breaking eye contact & sets it back down again, picking idly at the sticker. 

_(Whoosh)_

Wetting his lips, Sweeney smiles - grins really - and looks away first, stroking his beard briefly before he reaches, once again, for the deck. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue? idk her ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I have vague plans for the next three chapters, but I've *got*  
> to work on the dialogue (& the romance).
> 
> Thanks for reading thus far, let me know if you've spotted any issues or even have any ideas  
> for a new chapter - I can't keep avoiding you and Sweeney sitting down for a proper chat forever :)


	5. Chapter 5

Salim waits until the duo are firmly out of sight before he fills the bucket with tepid, soapy water, adding in a dash of some rubbing alcohol as an afterthought.

There's something wet and milky-coloured squirming up the lip of the sink, and he shivers as he turns the tap up higher, watching as the maggot swirls into the unplugged hole. 

He knows - and wishes that he didn't - that it had come from Laura.

Just yesterday, he'd witnessed her hack up an undulating ball of white slime, like a cat with a hairball, and promptly crush the maggots under the heel of her shoe, casually wiping the dribble of embalming fluid off her chin with the back of her hand like it was nothing. 

Even worse - it had been unusually hot today, and Laura had spent the better part of an hour submerged in an ice bath to dissuade decomposition; a discovery that he'd stumbled upon & had subsequently almost slammed the door off its hinges trying to _unsee_. 

(He can't quite bring himself to check the tub for any more lurkers.)

Thankfully, the evening had brought with it a well overdue reprieve from the sticky heat of the day - with soft breezes and marbled, overcast skies replacing sweat inducing humidity - and she'd gone off to buy ~~(most likely steal)~~ some supplies with Sweeney in tow (" _where the coin goes, I go"_ , brusque as ever) and Salim had found himself alone-- well, apart from you. 

He isn't quite sure how to feel about that.

So far, you've kept to yourself, alternating between milling about outside and reading some raunchy pulp novel Sweeney'd snagged from the rundown thrift store they'd stopped at before the motel; _Tokyo Thrift,_ although he'd seen no obvious affiliation with the city other than the styrofoam katana hanging behind the counter. 

Salim suspects that you're reading it more out of boredom than enjoyment and doesn't blame you for it. After all, seeking out the lesser known wonders of the world had seemed more 'action-packed adventure' than 'cross-country roadtrip' in his head. 

Sighing, he shoulders the bathroom door open as best he can whilst holding tight to the bucket, careful to avoid water sloshing over its sides onto the linoleum floor. You're nowhere to be seen, and that makes him uneasy, but - then again - he's almost always uneasy, so Salim pushes away any thoughts of you to the back of his mind and makes his way out to the empty car park. 

*

The stench hits him full in the face like an 18-wheeler even before he opens the taxi's door, but he has enough foresight to set the bucket down before he clamps a hand down over his nose and gags, almost throwing up in the process. 

Just like Laura, the cab has clearly been roasting in the sun.

Up this close, the air around him feels stagnant and increasingly oppressive, thick with an acrid smell of death that leaves his palms clammy and irritates his throat, stifling him as his mind shifts into overdrive; 

On second thought, he doesn't believe that this will help-- doesn't know anything about cleaning car interiors, or vinyl upholstery for that matter and, as he fashions a makeshift mask out of his handkerchief, the uneasiness sets in again. What if he does more harm than good? What if the smell never dissipates?

He won't be able to drive it like this, but it may be the only way for Ifrit to find him again.

_If he wants to find him again,_ that is. 

A chill runs through the carpark, stirring up stray leaves into a loose frenzy and forcing Salim's hands into the depths of his pockets. 

What if that night at the hotel was an end, not the beginning he'd interpreted it as being?

What if he was better off back in Oman, back where the world made sense and his _jida's_ stories were just stories & his sister would welcome him back with a feast of epic proportions - even if he hadn't fulfilled the selling quota. What if--

"Do you believe in life after love?"

Salim blinks, and the world swims back into view. You're standing beside him, one hand on your hip, the other rocking a cart backwards and forwards, lazily, across the tarmac. 

He blinks again, let's out a breath he hadn't known he was holding in, nose crinkling at the smell, and tries to think of something profound and 'beyond-his-years' sounding to say. You're wearing one of those oddly specific and, intrinsically American, t-shirts that you'd bought from the thrift store. There's a small stain below the hem - from the looks of it, barbecue.

He doesn't get the reference emblazoned across the shirt in firey letters, but he laughs anyway because it had brought Sweeney near to tears and he'd rather laugh than cry.

He laughs even harder when he realises what you mean and reaches into the cab to start the engine, flicking through CD after CD until he finds the one labelled _Cher's Greatest Hits_ in Ifrit's scrawl and slips it into the player, pressing track 5... 

Inevitably, he’d come to love the album over the course of his travels and would often belt her classics, completely off-key and tirelessly enthusiastic, as he cruised down highways and dirt-roads alike. 

"Here, let me help" 

Still smiling, Salim nods his acquiescence, careful of the roof of the car as he manoeuvres back out of it.

The cart you're toting (which looks suspiciously like the cleaner's) boasts all sorts of supplies that seem more suited to the task than his bucket, and so you waste an hour or two, scrubbing and singing together until the smell is somewhat manageable and not-so-subtly masked by not one, not two but 5 of those novel, tree shaped air fresheners - no more really than pieces of card doused in an array of perfumes, all indistinct from one another. 

*

It's much later when you ask him for a favour, already heading out before he has the chance to reply.

He follows anyway, and slides into the cab beside you, turning over the engine for a moment and wanting to say something - _anything_ \- yet hesitant to disrupt the almost-tense silence. Sweeney and Laura still aren't back, and he pulls out of the parking lot without a word, eyes fixed firmly on the road.

It doesn't take too long to get to your required destination, maybe 30 minutes, maybe more, and he waits without having to be told as you exit and head up the steps of the house in the middle of the street, entering without so much as a look back. 

The seats are still slightly damp from before, but he's lulled to sleep all the same by the hubbub of the early morning; chirping crickets, the soft patter of dewy rain on foliage and the last of the dying down wind. 

Some time passes before he's awoken with a jolt as you rap your knuckles against the driver's window and motion for him to shift to the passenger side. He does so, awkwardly, and you take his place, drumming your fingers momentarily on the wheel before you start the trip back. 

He'd been dreaming Salim realises, suddenly, as you drive - a tad too quickly, in his opinion - over a particularly deep pothole that draws a scraping whine from the wheels and leaves the windows rattling.

Yes, an odd dream, disjointed. 

In what had felt like just the blink of an eye, he'd gone from driving (seemingly inescapable, even when asleep) around in circles, each cycle quicker than the last, to being nothing at all. Or rather, _seeing._

Salim rubs his eyes, hard and fast enough that a smattering of tawny-orange light persists even as he opens them again, obscuring his view of the road as they dance across his vision, like a--

_A flaming pyre, the heat furnace-like and bright enough to blind, licking first at bound feet, then spreading quickly up across legs and arms, setting alight whatever it can reach._

_Thrust back into the midst of his nightmare and helpless to do anything but watch, Salim feels himself blanche, horrified, as writhing swathes of skin first blister, then blacken and are finally engulfed in flames._

_The smell is acrid - chemical and yet inexplicably_ meaty _ & strong enough even from this far that Salim has to check twice that _ he _isn't the one doused in gasoline._

_Worse, even as he chokes through tears - throat scratchy from the column of smoke billowing out into the wind - and the body finally goes limp, (_ yes, even as the nightmare begins to fade _) a bout of raucous, unhinged laughter still permeates through the crackling of flames, just as loud and sounding just as real as the thump of Salim's heart through his chest._

*

When he wakes, the sun has risen in earnest and he is alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp, not so sure how I feel about this chapter. Tried some stylistic stuff, like all the questions when Salim starts to clean the car. They're supposed to convey his increasing anxiety, but I don't know if that came across well.
> 
> I honestly only have about 2 chapters 'sort of' planned (read: not planned whatsoever) after this, but they're not chronological & I've only started a mini paragraph for the next one, so who knows how long those will take me.
> 
> If you're still reading, let me know what you think :)


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